We were standing in the kitchen when he asked me the question. My hands were lost in the dishwater, he’d stopped clearing counters because something much more important had taken over his 5-year-old mind.
I don’t remember the question, something scientific. It was always something scientific, and I wasn’t interested.
“I don’t know,” I answered, reached for the sippy cup. I was eight.
“I know you don’t know,” he answered, impatient. “What do you think about it?”
“I don’t know anything,” I’d tell him. “I don’t think anything about it.”
And then bewilderment, irritation, maybe even disgust? wandered over his face.
“You don’t know what you think?” he demanded.
We had that conversation time after time. Sometimes he’d complain to mom. “Heather won’t tell me what she thinks!” And Mom would would assure him that I wasn’t withholding, I simply had no thoughts on the exact reason that hot air rises or the sky’s blue or that gravity pulls us in to the earth.
We’ve grown up since then. He’s in NYC, taking on a world of numbers and mathematical probabilities and so much beyond my ken.
I’m here outside of Pittsburgh, in a world made up of the concrete, of words, of actions.
He’s still ever so much smarter than I am.
I’m flying out to NYC tonight to see him, and I couldn’t be more excited. This time I’ll really try to think, I promise!
Have a great weekend, all, and check back Monday for pictures.